The Blood of my Brother
by Mazurati
Summary: In his sixth year Harry realizes why he is The-boy-who-lived. But can he do it in time when Voldemort shows why HE is The only Dark Lord? In the DoM blood falls.


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Disclaimer: I of course do not own any of the characters and situations in Harry Potter. My characters are just creations, fabricated to make a unique telling of my version of a book six.

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A/N: This fic may have some religious references whether true or fictional I don't wish to offend anyone.

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Beta'd by Lilith Donovan

I would appreciate reviews, thank you. So, tell me what you think.

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'There is a room of which is kept locked at all times there is a force that is at once more powerful and terrible than death, than human intelligence and forces of nature'- **Albus Dumbledore, The Lost Prophecy**

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Prologue: **My Lord, I have Sinned.**

The grass was soggy underneath his bent knees. The rain that fell from the clouded sky didn't disturb his concentration, but instead enhanced his focus. He needed to get this off his chest before it was too late, before he was able to condemn himself any further. In his baritone voice he spoke to no one, or rather, to everyone. To the heaven and skies, to earth and hell, but it was Him that he addressed his somber prayer.

"Please forgive me father, for I have sinned**.** Hear my plea as you've already seen my troubles, silence my guilt with scalding welcome as I apologize for staining your beautiful earth."

The sky exploded in a forked flash of lightning, seconds before the resounding booming of thunder rumbled from the heavens.

He could always expect an answer.

An odd, dark-colored puddle bubbled conspicuously beneath the kneeling man. Rainwater had begun to dilute the mixture and its substance began to pool around his knees. It wasn't dark because of the sodden earth beneath it but because of the fact that it was blood and that, was undeniable. His clothes soaked up the liquid and a red tinge had appeared on his skin. The smell began to saturate his senses and he could actually taste a faint flavor of copper.

It had come streaming down from the hill that sloped gently upward opposite him. His eyes reached up towards the crest of itand he exhaled in tortured mourning.

It was a scene that would forever be engraved within his mind, the ugly visage, and his creation. Horribly mangled and disgustingly disfigured bodies lay strewn across the forest clearing. Some had been thrown atop each other in the fury that was the fight; heaped anonymously in a doll-like manner.

He looked blankly at a spot in front of him, his vision swimming as he had a sudden unbidden recollection of how they had gotten, when the only thing he hoped, was to forget.

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A sound that resembled a gunshot ruptured the relative quietness of the open grassland. He hadn't wanted to be their today; this was a job for his brother if anything. But reputations had to be upheld, and whether it was for him to do it or someone else, it would ultimately have to be done. If they didn't do their part correctly, they simply couldn't be allowed to continue living in their perpetual state of naivetes.

The least he could do was send them away quickly, the very least he could do. Spread out only a few meters apart he effortlessly approached the closest two with a silent step and began to go to work.

He slammed his elbow into the back of one of the men, that elicited the gunshot sound as his spine shattered, paralyzing him before he and his comrade were fully aware of what was upon them. Never pausing, he used his momentum to plant his palm into the thick neck of the man beside him as he slipped lifelessly to the ground. He didn't even bother stopping to check them. They meant nothing and were merely nameless faces to him and that fact couldn't be helped. The anonymous white masks the two wore stayed firmly in place becoming dotted with droplets of rain as they toppled to the sopping grass. He couldn't discern whether they had died or not from their slumped appearances though, it would make a better impression if they had. When they awoke, if ever, they could explain to their **Master **why they had been disabled without putting up a fight. How could a male with a master call himself a man? He only answered to one person and that was himself and the Lord.

There were two more he observed as rain dripped from his drenched hair and spattered on his bare-chest, sliding down and mingling with the rest of the water. Alerted by the hollow thuds of bodies hitting the grass, they spun around and faced him. These men had no obstructions preventing their eyes from taking in the scene that had quietly unfolded behind their backs. They remained expressionless as they saw the two bodies collapsed in puddles on the ground. For one brief second, they regarded each other with slitted eyes as they reached an unspoken agreement, then they launched forward towards him.

He stared at their advance and slowly slid his eyes closed for a fraction of a second, more like a blink than anything. When he opened his eyes again, something very peculiar was happening. He watched as they approached with an agonizing slowness. He could see each individual step they planted into the wet grass and he could see the water trickle out of the ground, like they were stepping on a wet sponge.

Unexpectedly, one of the men had reached both hands above his head to grasp at a point just above his neckline, behind his back. He heard it even before he saw it in this slow motioned state. The resounding sound of metal sliding against metal, that menacing sound, and at this painfully slow speed he could watch each millimeter of metal being tugged free from it's sheath. A deviously long blade followed the glimmering, straight obsidian handle, which was deadly beautiful. He stared while the other man's face slowly contorted into a veil of nasty triumph. He obviously thought that they had won before the fight had even started. How wrong he was.

His eyes slid closed once more and everything had sped up at an alarming rate. They were suddenly rocketing towards him, the sword on the right, the unarmed at the left, appearing thousands of times faster than he had originally calculated. He soon realized that death couldn't be avoided in this situation. He blotted their faces out in his mind, once more insignificant. They were all insignificant…

He stood there as they rushed towards him then he closed his eyes and let them come. Listening was the best thing you could do sometimes. The splashing grew frighteningly close and milliseconds before they reached spot where he stood, he had vanished. They stopped accordingly and waited for what had to have been 3 seconds but it seemed like the longest 3 seconds in the history of the world, if that was possible.

Unexpectedly the air behind the sword wielder shimmered and then He was there. The veins in his smooth tan arm bulge out crazily as he snaked his arm around the man's neck clutching like a vice. For just one second in time nothing could be heard then he emitted a high-pitched coughing wheeze and a loud snapping sound was heard and he went limp. Blood gushed everywhere as his head was smoothly ripped from his shoulders and the body had fell into the already stained grass.

With the reality of seeing another comrade killed so maliciously sizzling his mind, the other man jumped into motion diving at the unknown killer wildly and caught…nothing but the body a dead man. The other had vanished again, along with the slick katana his friend had once slain so many with. Even the sheath had been detached from his back so that he knew the killer had taken it.

He was watching as the man held the dead body with no emotion remotely blemishing his face. A stone faced killer had just had the tables turned on him in less than a minute now three bodies surrounded him and he **knew **that the man could feel he was next even if he didn't show emotion. That same thing had happened to him before. To know that from this point forward you had no control over your life and dying was unthinkably close was a maddening experience.

The unfortunate thing was that he had known he was going to survive this male here though, this mastered man had no such luck going for him today. He decided not to prolong him from his fate.

He reappeared directly in front of the other holding the sword in his hand and the sheath now attached to **his **back, the master of all puppets.

"Kill me if you must." Said the other. He didn't whisper or sob, cry or scream in the face of death he was now his own master, or so it appeared.

He felt overcome with something briefly and in that small space of time it had changed his whole attitude.

He slipped the blade cleanly into its resting-place that metallic sound sending icy fingers along his spine. He regarded the other with open eyes and let his face, not just the insignificant mask be witnessed.

The hawk eyes and sharpened facial features. The tangled hair and crudely shaven beard was registered. He managed to grin a little as he seen the sudden blaze of reconciliation dawn on the once bland face of the man he let live.

He continued to walk forward and raised his hand high into the air before he let it fall back to his side again like signaling the start of race the man was gone.

Turning his back and sighing he started walking down the gentle slope towards redemption.

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When he spoke again**,** a low guttural sound choked its way from his throat**,** and he heaved dryly for a moment before regaining his composure.

"Lord, please forgive. From the bottom of my soul, I am truly sorry. Not for these men Lord, no. They…" his voice broke off and he let out a tortured moan. "They deserved what they** got**! I avenged the many people that they've murdered over the years, Lord. Though I- I know it wasn't my place to do so. It came between them and me and sadly lord, they lost…" The last sentence left his lips and fell horribly, disappearing silently in the now docile rainstorm.

Sweaty, soggy hair fell into his face as he bowed his head, his expression closed off to the world, devoid of emotion as he spoke. It was profound that he could be so intimate while confessing to killing. The Creator had a calming affect.

"My Father, I am weary from my battle, but I know that the war is not over. It has just begun, and I must protect what is righteous as one of your creations. The ultimate battle rests on my shoulders; I am here to try and clear a path through the scalding fire that is sure to burn me on my way. But I sorely hope you can forgive me Lord, because, as you are my witness, there will be more pain to come and soon Lord, my legs will be permanently bent in prayer, in my sorrow."

As the rain began to fall harder in torrential buckets, he was still rested upon his knees praying, unaffected. Something had slid down the sopping grass and hit his thigh, breaking his focus and causing him to look at the occlusion. It immediately caused him to look away for fear of stomach wrenching sickness. It was the counterpart of one of bodies he had slain, the main focal, the head. The pale flesh was sliced smoothly and cleanly from the shoulders, perfectly intact, beautiful in an aspect yet horrible in reality. Unseeing eyes stared at him unblinkingly**,** but he turned away defiantly.

He could hear the little sickening voice whisper in his ear snidely; **_they're not so insignificant, are they _**it spoke as it gradually began fading away. **_Try forgetting those eyes as easily as you've done the others. They'll haunt you forever, yes they will…_**

"I am sorry Father. All I can ask is that you guide my hand as I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, the same road I trod so very long ago. Please prevent me from becoming weary and help let others realize their plan on this globe filled with strife. I love you and I'm comforted to feel you return it."

Nodding his head while looking into the sky, his heart blossomed with forgiveness, at least what he could perceive as forgiveness. Standing up**,** he threw his dripping hair away from his face**,** shaking his head fiercely, and ridding the demons. Soaking wet and all alone**,** he walked away from the pooled blood, from the bodies, from reality.

Traveling down a road of perdition towards sanctity, he knew there would be plenty of corpses to trace his path. Though, as long as he had his Father, he could do his job. He could be the protector and in doing so, he could clear the way for a leader.

He turned regarding the red colored mound before turning away and slipping into the approaching shadows as they wrapped around him. It was his job to be great and on his way to greatness, death couldn't be avoided, sometimes.

He was Mazurati, The Forgotten Power.

He turned back quickly and**,** glancing at the pile of flesh**,** he shook his head and disappeared silently. Neither sight nor sounds to ever proclaim he'd ever even set foot there. Only but a few bodies left in his wake.

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Wondering where the story is going to go from here? Who is Mazurati? Why does he have to do what he is doing? What is the war going on? What's he going to do next? Why does he feel he has to do it at all if he feels so guilty about it? He obviously has a lot of experience killing people. Why is this? I'm not saying I will answer all these questions soon, but were these thoughts you had when you were reading through it. If you are intrigued about this man, and want to know more about him continue to read the story and I will appreciate it.

Beta'd by Lilith Donovan


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